The house that built us is crumbling down.
Rot and decay has taken its told on the dying love.
The only thing left is malice and bitter feelings.
They tried to patch it up, but it failed.
Make things look pretty with colorful paints and flowers.
The paint peeled and the flowers withered and died.
Some tried to look in.
They want to fix the decay.
Yet their own sanity succumbed to the house's twisted ways.
My mind is forever scarred, but blank at the moment.
No longer can I think back to those days.
Where my smiles fell from my face, and a waterfall replaced them.
Why me? Why now? Why here?
I ask the house over and over again.
Its own hurtful laugh is the only thing I hear in my ears.
The house that built us is crumbling down.
YOU ARE READING
Dusk
PoetryPoetry at its finest. Raw, edgy uncut, and nothing held back. Just the way I like it.
